


Stolen Moments

by isitandwonder



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: M/M, Shibari, Somnophilia, Talking French
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 15:32:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16307867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: Armie and Timmy meet briefly in Crema after San Sebastian and Milan.Finally! Only two weeks late - my birthday fic for the lovely Morna1! I hope you like it, dear!? I tried to put as much of your wishes into it but it went somewhere...Warning, the ending got a bit sad.





	Stolen Moments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morna1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morna1/gifts).



Timmy’s drifting. The ropes are cutting into his flesh, cocooning him, and he’s almost ready to fall off the edge.

Almost.

But Armie didn’t allow for it, not yet, so he has to wait. He has to stay in the here and now, no matter how hard it is, still somewhat aware of the things going on around him.

Well, there are the aforementioned ropes, red, spreading his legs. He’s balancing his weight on his right foot on the ground while his left leg is tied backwards and somehow attached to both his arms bound together above his head. His back is arched, almost impossibly curved, his head pulled back. If he opens his eyes he can see the strong red rope wound around an antique metal hook in the ceiling, probably for a chandelier long removed. Now, the hotel room is illuminated by modern halogen lamps embedded in the walls of their suite.

Armie has dimmed them so the rooms are bathed in gloomy twilight. Timmy has no idea how long he’s been suspended like this. Armie makes sure his circulation isn’t cut off by rubbing Timmy’s leg and touching his hands to feel if they are getting cold.

But that’s the only physical contact he’s providing.

Shibari is a form or art, not necessarily sexual, like bondage, Armie had explained to him while tying him up. That’s why Timmy is still wearing tight white boxer briefs and a white t-shirt. It also allows him to keep his arousal at bay, concentrating on the changes in his body instead, the strain of muscles, how Armie bends his limbs. He uses him like one of those wooden human mannequins artists use to draw poses and it’s a strange feeling to be twisted like this but it also forces Timmy to let go which is a good start for their evening together.

It's also a good start that he's more than half-hard. Being helpless like this really turns him on. Armie moulding his willing limbs the way he wants him is both exciting and disturbing.

They slowly glide back into their dynamic. Especially Timmy needs time to transition, for the subtle shift that allows him to access this place he has no words for. He wouldn’t call it subspace. To him, this state brings peace, quieting his mind. He’s in a bubble that secures him, supports him in the madness his life has become over the last year.

The drive from San Sebastian had been exhausting. He’d left there in the morning, only to arrive in Crema late afternoon. Armie just had to pop over from Milan but he looks like he’s still suffering from jetlag. It usually hits him harder than Timmy. Might be the age.

“Hey, darling, you still with me?” Timmy hears Armie ask, his hand touching Timmy’s cheek. He opens his eyes and tries to locate Armie in the room, turning his head left and right as best as he can in his position. But that small movement is enough to set his whole body spinning in his bounds. His right feet loses purchase and suddenly he’s swinging from the ceiling. It’s terrifying for a second before he gives in and accepts that he has absolutely no control left.

“This is about trust.” Armie had told him. “You have to trust me for this to work. Trust that I won’t hurt you. Trust that I know what I’m doing. Trust that the ropes will hold you. Do you trust me, Tim?”

“Yes, Armie.” 

And after a flicker of doubt Timmy realizes that he really does. The room is standing on its head and Timmy has no idea what he’ll do if Armie would leave him like this but the question is obsolete because Armie would never do that.

And this knowledge warms Timmy from the inside, gives him security even in this precarious position – both physically and mentally.

After a moment, however, strong hands grab his arms and steady him. Timmy's shoulder joints ache, as do his calve muscles.

“Careful.” Armie whispers from behind him. Timmy can feel his body heat even through his clothes. Armie's just wearing leather pants riding low on his hips and nothing else.  
Timmy desperately wants to feel his furry chest against his smooth back, wants to caress the arch of his feet with his own toes...

“I’m okay.” Timmy says.

“Good. Then listen. Here are your instructions.”

Timmy tries to focus on Armie without losing his footing again. He still feels dizzy.

“When I untie you, you'll go over into the bath and take a shower. A very thorough shower. Afterwards, there's something on the bed I want you to wear. Lie down and wait for me. I want you to fake sleep. And you are not to talk. Not until I tell you to. Understood?”

Timmy tries to nod but that's a bit difficult in his position. He wonders if he's still allowed to speak and decides to take the risk.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Armie doesn't seem in a hurry to let him down, though. He circles Timmy, watching.

“God, you look so lovely like this.”

Timmy loves being praised. He can feel his cock twitch.

“Ah, Lil Timmy Tim is with us tonight, I see. Is he enjoying himself so far?”

“Don't-” Timmy says, but a hand tugging at his curls, pulling his head even further back silences him.

“Stop.Talking.” Armie hisses. Timmy closes his mouth, stifling the pained gasp that wants to escape. “You really need to learn some patience. This exercise might be even more important to you than to me.”

With that, Armie pulls on the rope thrown over the hook in the ceiling and hoists Timmy up into the air. No matter how much he stretches, his foot doesn't touch the floor.

He's flying. Armie gives his body a little shove and he sways in his bounds, turning while slowly dipping forward until he's almost parallel to the ground. It feels like his arms might pop from their sockets.

He inhales. Holds his breath. Exhales. When he turns his head he sees Armie’s strong arms holding the rope. He’s safe. He can relax.

Pain and fear transcend into something else, a lightness he only achieves in scenarios like this, when his boundaries get pushed way past comfort level. His heart is beating fast but his breathing is even. His mind goes white. He can let go now.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Armie says. His eyes have gone dark.

After another minute, Armie slowly, carefully lowers Timmy onto a fluffy rug. He ends up on his belly as Armie meticulously unties him, massaging his limbs.

“Can you sit up?”

Timmy knows better than to answer. He just complies. His arms and legs tingle. His neck hurts a bit. But otherwise he's fine. He balls his hands into fists a few times to get the blood flow going before standing up. He limps a little on his way over into the bathroom but after a long hot shower he feels as good as new.

But centred. Calm. Collected.

When he steps into the bedroom with just a towel around his waist, however, he exhales sharply as he sees what's lying on the bed: It's a white translucent nightgown, just a touch of fabric really, falling almost down to his feet, swirling around his body, two thin silky straps over his shoulders holding it in place. It feels cool against his skin after the scalding shower.

There's a huge mirror on one wall and Timmy tentatively steps in front of it to take a look. He fears he might look ridiculous but the opposite is the case. Yes, he bulged up a little for his latest movie, but the stress of the promo tour is doing a great job in slimming him down again. The thin white fabric hides nothing though. His dark nipples are visible underneath, as is his rapidly filling cock in its nest of black curls, already tenting the nightgown. His collar bones jut out above the low, lace-trimmed neck-line, his ribs forming shallow valleys on his chest. His skin is so pale, almost as white as his negligee. In contrast, his cheeks are flaming red. If his hair was still longer he would shyly tuck it behind his ear. 

Rope marks are still visible on both his arms.

He touches them but then remembers what Armie told him, so he climbs into bed, pulls a sheet up to cover himself and feigns sleep.

Shortly after, he hears Armie step into the room. The mattress dips. A hand sneaks under the sheet. Under Timmy's nightgown. Between his legs, slowly moving up, up.

Armie's body presses against his back. He's still wearing those leather trousers. Timmy can feel them as one of Armie's thighs slides between his, nudges them apart. He doesn't move, doesn’t respond, not even as Armie pulls his hips back flush against his own prominent erection.

Timmy's nightgown slides up, is pushed out of the way. Hands start to explore his body, grab his waist, slide over his belly, up his chest. Then back down again, lower, lower…

“You are a little rounder here and there:” Armie pinches him. “I like that. A lot.”

When one of Armie's hands cups his cock the other wraps around his throat. As Armie tucks and strokes his fingers around Timmy's windpipe tighten. Breathing becomes harder and harder.

“I want you to speak only French to me, darling.” Armie whispers in his ear. Right now, Timmy couldn't get a word out in any language anyway.

But a moment later, the hand around his neck is gone as Armie turns Timmy onto his back.

“Wake up, princess.” Armie tenderly kisses his lips. Timmy opens his eyes.

“Est-ce déjà le matin?” Timmy asks sleepily, stretching his arms over his head, showing Armie his marks.

“Whatever... I need to fuck you, honey.”

Timmy smiles up at him. “Moi aussi.” He sighs.

“God, you sound so sexy when you say things like that.” Armie kisses him, harder this time, then rolls over and pulls Timmy on top of him. The negligee is rugged up but pools around Timmy's hips. One strap has slid from his shoulder, exposing his left, erect nipple.

“You look lovely.” Armie strokes his arms with his fingertips before cupping his face. “Beautiful. Like Snow White.”

Timmy giggles. “Blanche neige.” He bows down and kisses Armie. “Et un géant.”

Armie reaches under the pillows and hands him a bottle of lube.

“Get yourself wet for me, princess. Let me watch.”

Timmy takes the lube, kneels up and turns around so that he straddles Armie facing his lovely big bare feet. Armie pushes the nightgown out of the way and soon Timmy has three fingers up his own ass while sucking Armie's toes with abandon.

“Oh, cherie, you are killing me. Are you ready? Please tell me you’re ready!” Armie is panting. He has opened his leather trousers and is stroking himself. Timmy can smell him.

“Je suis prêt.” Timmy breathes. When he turns around, Armie simply rips the flimsy nighty from his body, tearing it apart with his strong hands. Timmy crawls up his body, rubbing his face in the fur on Armie's chest while lining his cock up with his right hand.

“Baise moi.” He moans and Armie pushes in.

It's always a little overwhelming to feel Armie enter him. He's just so fucking big. But Timmy is getting used to it. High-quality lube helps.

“Je peux te sentir dans ma gorge.” Timmy pants as he starts to ride Armie, who thrusts up into him. The stretch is almost unbearable. Almost. “Tu es si grand.”

“God, you are so tight. I love it. I love you.”

Those words unlock something in Timmy. He's never sure how serious Armie is with him but right now he doesn't question his intentions, he just bathes in his affection.  


Tomorrow, there will be Liz and the press and promotion and Hollywood and new projects but right now, it's them. Just them.

And, right now, even if only for these few minutes of stolen time in which Timmy poses as someone else, Armie loves him. Can love him.

That has to be enough.

Timmy clenches, sits up, pinches Armie's nipples, pulls his chest hair. Armie pounds into him, snapping his hips. Timmy meets every thrust circling his hips, taking it like a man.

“J'aime cela. Je t'aime.” He chants. Thank god Armie doesn't understand a word he says. He could recite the Marseilles or a recipe for Coq au Vin and Armie would get off on it.

“Yeah, my little French minx, talk dirty to me.” Armie grabs his hips and Timmy grinds down, taking hold of his own leaking cock, stroking hard and fast.

“Je ne veux pas te perdre. J’ai besoin de toi. S'il-te-plait reste avec moi. Chaque jour sans toi je meurs un peu à l'intérieur.” Timmy just tells the truth. Confessing his true feelings is liberating, a bit like the shibari session earlier. It’s impossible to hide in such intense circumstances.

Armie suddenly stops moving, holds him still, stares into his eyes. Timmy holds his gaze. His eyes are a very dark blue in those moments, and Timmy thinks he sees want there, longing. Armie’s eyes during sex are always kind. 

Kind, but also sad.

It makes Timmy ache in a totally different way than being tied up. It makes him want to give everything he has to Armie, body and soul. But deep down he knows it will never be enough.

He groans. Clenches his muscles. Slides up, down. Wants Armie’s desire fill that dark void inside him. Wants to pour his love into Armie to make him happy, just for a few minutes. He’ll do anything.

“Tim.” Armie whispers. “Now.” And Timmy is coming, shooting all over his fingers and Armie's chest. At the same time, he feels Armie pulse inside him. His eyes flutter shut.  


Timmy slumps forward. Armie gently lifts him off. Removes the rags of the night gown. Gets a warm flannel to clean him up. Holds him close. Pulls the sheet up over both of them.

Timmy knows he's allowed to speak now but he has no words. He said what he had to say the only way possible between them. With his body. And in a language Armie loves but doesn’t understand. 

^^^^^^^^

When they were living in the Caymans, Armie had a French nanny. His parents thought it important for their kids to get used to different cultures and influences. Estelle taught him and his brother songs like Frère Jacques and chansons by Edith Piaf. She also taught him to play guitar and his father called her Soeur Sourire.

Armie's not as fluent in French as he used to be but it's still enough to understand every word Tim says.

It breaks his heart. He knows. He understands. He feels the same.

But it's not to be. Not in this life.

“Dors bien, mon amour.” He mumbles into Timmy's hair. “I wish it was different. Je souhaitais...“


End file.
